


Paint it Black

by argle_fraster



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Blindness, Community: avengerkink, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, why do i use words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-18
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-05 13:53:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argle_fraster/pseuds/argle_fraster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An accident during lab procedures leaves Bruce without sight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The spray of chemical hits him in the face, too fast to react to. There is a hot burst of pain, so bright that it's white-hot and stinging, a jagged line of ache across his temple, and a moment of stillness as everything pauses and hangs above his shoulders.

When he opens his eyes, there is only blackness, and it's strange that his first thought is wondering where the whiteness from only a second earlier went. It's strange because there is _blackness_ : blackness and _only_ that. The sting of the chemical has been replaced with a dull ache that thuds through his forehead. He presses a finger to the ridge of his eyebrow because it's the only thing he can think to do, and the skin against the short hairs is oddly reassuring.

"Bruce?" Tony is asking, and from the tone of his voice, he's been asking for some time and Bruce is only now registering it. This, too, is important: it means something. Bruce closes his eyes and opens them again, and aside from the slight residual sting that flares up as he does so, there is nothing else there.

"Bruce!" There is more impatience in the syllable now. Bruce can gauge where Tony is from the volume. He lets his hand fall from his forehead, so he can slowly reach out forward. He hits fabric before flesh, and the short hairs that slowly edge along the curve of his jaw. Bruce can see him, only because he knows the shape of Tony's face.

"I... I can't see," Bruce says. Admitting it is worse than the blackness is, worse than the nothingness that has taken up residence in his vision. He knows Tony is there, crouched in front of Bruce's semi-reclining form if the height of his face can be judged. He knows the Bunsen burner is there, too, and the shards that are no doubt littering the floor. He just can't see them.

Then, the panic is there, burning like bile in the back of his throat. "Tony, I can't _see_."

\--

The world is dark. The world is dark, and Bruce feels like he's lost an arm. He feels like part of himself has been cut off. The doctors had said that it could be repairable, it could be reversible - but they don't know. The chemicals that Tony Stark uses in experiments on a regular basis are not on the list of common ailments they see.

Bruce sits on the couch in Stark Tower, staring at what he knows, from memory, as a corner, and feels as if part of himself is gone.

He can't see. He can't see the algorithms, he can't see the formulas; he can't see the numbers or the answers or the calculations. He can't see the machines that he and Tony were working on. He can't even see the fabric of the couch cushions he's sitting on, even though he can run his hands over the material and he knows the color of it - deep red, like the clay-based pottery spun on the streets of Jemez pueblo of New Mexico.

But Bruce can't see it.

He sits on the couch at Stark Tower, and can't see anything at all.

\--

It takes awhile for Tony to really talk to him - there's something hanging between them that tastes like guilt and regret, and Bruce wonders if he would be able to see just those emotions on Tony's face if he could make out anything. He's been on the couch for days, and he's pretty sure that the AI have been programmed to watch him - watch him, but not necessarily help him. He's felt his way back to the bathroom and his bedroom, and it's been a learning process to re-memorize the turns and twists that he had thought were automatic and familiar.

Tony sits on the couch and Bruce has already heard the pad of the man's feet - Tony wears shoes, even inside, even in his own home, and the soles thud against the tiles - before he feels the cushion shift beneath him.

"I'm thinking Thai tonight," Tony says, without preamble. "There's a new place down the street that's advertising some kind of crazy noodles."

Bruce tries to picture Tony's face - there are blank spaces, and he isn't sure why. He hasn't forgotten, but he just can't seem to conjure the specifics. He is so busy trying to reconstruct his recollection that he doesn't answer, and he can feel Tony shift closer on the couch from the vibrations trembling up his forearms.

"Are you not a fan of Thai? Other suggestions?"

"Tony," Bruce says, exhaling around it.

"Okay, fine, _you_ pick, and if you choose one of those health-food, organic delis again, I promise I'll only mock you a little bit."

He's skating around the issue, playing nice; Tony Stark doesn't play nice, and it's so false that it's ringing wrong and out of place with everything else that is already like an awful charicature of what used to be Bruce's life.

There is only dark nothingness that never goes away.

"I don't want Thai," Bruce says - his tongue is very thick and sticking to the roof of his mouth.

"Well, I could just have six different things delivered and we could mix and match," Tony offers.

He wants to find the anger he knows is lurking just beneath the surface, but it's not there. There's nothing there, and it matches the nothing in front of his eyes. He wants to argue - he just can't.

He manages to unstick his tongue from his teeth, and says, "Alright."

\--

Bruce wakes in the middle of the night having dreamt of color. He dreamt of gamma radiation that was green and harsh as the coiling rage in his gut, of Tony's armor that glistens crimson in the sunlight. When he wakes, he sees the echoes of the colors around the room as only a vestige of the dream, and then it's gone.

He doesn't go back to sleep. He can't; he can't risk seeing it again. He can't risk being reminded of everything he has lost all over again, in shapes and figures that he can no longer make out.

\--

It seems that they will only allow him to wallow alone for so long - Nick Fury arrives a few days later, with Barton and Romanov in tow, breezing into Stark Tower like he owns the place. Bruce can hear the clip of his heels against the floor; Fury has a very distinct way of walking. He puts a lot of weight on his heels and rolls his feet forward as best he can in his boots. Romanov, on the other hand, makes almost no noise moving across the floor. Bruce catalogues these things away, because it's all he can hold onto.

Separating the details into categories is like putting together an equation with the correct variables.

"Banner," Fury says, somewhere to Bruce's right. They are on the floor with the widescreen television and the second best-stocked mini-bar, because Bruce hasn't yet managed to get himself back into the lab he can no longer use. Bruce imagines that Fury is standing near the door with his hands down at his sides, fists tight.

"At ease," Bruce says. There's a soft scrape of boot against tile, and he knows he was right. He can make out a whisper that no doubt accompanies a shared glance across the room. Tony is here, somewhere, because he is always here, whether Bruce wants him to be or not.

Someone clears their throat, and it sounds like Barton.

"I see that you are recovering nicely," Fury tries again, and stops when Bruce starts laughing, because he can't figure out what part of losing days to couch cushions could be considered a good recovery. Maybe Fury has different standards; maybe Fury expected him to have already rage destroyed the entirety of the tower.

There's a press of fingertips against Bruce's shoulder, too light to be Fury's.

"Bruce," Natasha says, very near to Bruce's ear. She really does move without sound. "I'm happy that you're okay."

He's not okay - how can anyone be okay without the vision they have relied their whole life on, professional and otherwise. But Natasha's hand is warm and the weight is welcome, so Bruce doesn't say anything and she keeps her fingers there for a moment longer than completely necessary.

"I assume you are here on business?" Tony says. He's across the room, maybe by the windows.

"I'm always here on business," Fury replies. His boots click across the floor, and Bruce loses his small gauge on where the man might have been. He's less familiar with this level of the tower, at least in terms of having seen it.

"Is this high security?" Tony asks, and that makes Bruce pause. Last time he checked, he was considered a part of high security - and then he realizes, with a sinking feeling, that Tony is talking about _him_. Tony is trying to figure out if Fury has come to talk about Bruce himself, and if they should take the conversation elsewhere.

Anger _does_ flare up then, hot and residual red, and it's the best thing Bruce has felt in days. He feels _alive_ again. His hands, resting against his thighs, clench slightly, and he lets a bit of the anger through, just because it's something. It's _anything_ in a world of nothing but inky blackness.

"Sir," Barton says, the first bit of his voice that Bruce has heard since they arrived. It's a warning note. Barton, wherever he is, has noticed.

The man really does see everything.

Bruce closes his eyes, even though it changes nothing in his vision, and breathes deep.

"That won't be necessary," Fury says, and it's probably in response to Tony. "I have some information regarding the Tesserect that I wanted to pass along. It's come filtered down through Thor, who asked that it, and information regarding Loki, be distributed to you."

"Did he," Tony replies. It's not a question at all. "Then, by all means, proceed."

There is a pause that indicates that Fury is perhaps annoyed at being bossed around, and Bruce takes the opportunity presented within. "If you don't mind, I think I'll head down the hall to the bedroom," he says.

"This information will no doubt interest you," Fury tells him, and at least by turning away, Bruce feels like he's accomplished something. He already can't see, but turning his back is symbolic. At least, he _hopes_ it's symbolic.

"Can't see why," he calls back, and feels his way to the door - he knows he must look silly with his hands splayed against the wall, but he's still only half-sure of the space and positioning of the things he knows he needs to avoid, and of the corridor itself. None of them cross the room to help him, and he's fiercely, achingly glad for it. "Won't be much help if I can't read the monitors or access databases on it anymore."

"Banner," Fury snaps.

"Sorry," Bruce says, and he isn't sure who exactly that he is apologizing to - everyone, maybe. Maybe himself more than anything. "But I think I'm going to sit this one out."


	2. Chapter 2

That night - and he can only tell it's night by the way the silence descends on the tower and the outside noise grows dim, and occasionally by the time said aloud by his talking clock when he manages to smack the top of it with his palm - Bruce goes to the lab in a fit of masochism. He feels his way there along the path he knew by heart already.

It's different when he can't see it. He knows where the side of the monitor is, but he can't read it, and he isn't sure where the button to turn the database information into audio files would be located. He's never had to use it before. He drags his fingers across the top of the counter and walks slowly, just in case Tony has something sitting out on the table that he could knock off. There is nothing near the edge until he rounds the corner and finds the burner - or at least where the burner had been that they were using, because the burner itself is gone.

Bruce slides his fingers over the round incision in the counter where it used to be, wondering what is really around him. Fury's information, possibly, could be displayed on the screens, and alongside it, new readings on the radiation sweep they were doing or the stress tests they were performing on the metal Tony wanted to improve his suit with.

He sucks in a deep lungful of air, and moves his hand to the side, palm hitching a bit as it travels across the table.

Something clicks and beeps.

"State directive," the monitor to Bruce's left says in the darkness.

"What?" Bruce asks. The database had never attempted to speak to him before; if Tony had programmed JARVIS online with the other networks, then it is a new addition that Bruce wasn't aware of.

The computer hums. "Touch or audio."

"Audio," Bruce replies.

"Shall I recite the formula again, sir?" the computer asks.

Something catches in Bruce's lungs - relief, perhaps, so palpable it's stinging his eyes, or gratitude, in a strange and powerful wave. "Yes," he says. "But first, give me ... give me a list of options."

"Very well," the computer says. "Options include database information retrieval, voice-command model rendering, variable recitation, and operation control."

"Operation control?" Bruce repeats. "What is that?"

There is another hum, and the table directly beneath Bruce's hand splits. His hand is engulfed in something that is initially cool and sticky to the touch, like glue used to hang things on the walls, which quickly warms and molds itself around his hand. Scarcely able to breathe, he presses his index finger down into the mold and the computer beeps in response.

"Initializing operation motion control protocol," the voice informs him. "Shall I run the audio tutorial for you, sir?"

Bruce doesn't answer right away. He can't - he can't process. Settling around him are the toys and gadgets and servers that he worked with for weeks before the accident, and now, they are responding and adapting to his new limited parameters. There was no way that the settings he is utilizing had been programmed into the system initially; these were new. Tony had set them up since the accident had happened.

He is sure he feels gratitude, then, swift and warm and working its way up from his abdomen. He's not sure he's ever been given anything as meaningful as what he is encountering now.

He's not sure what that means, either.

"Sir?" the computer asks again. "Repeat previous command?"

"No," Bruce says, and exhales, all at once, feeling elated and light-headed and delirious all at the same time. "No, just... run the audio tutorial for me."

"Very good, sir."

\--

His head is still buzzing the next morning when Tony comes into the lab, heels thudding against the tile in time with Bruce's heartbeat.

"I solved the problem with the last algorithm," Bruce says, skipping the greeting. "The variable we were using wasn't stable, so when we completed the function, it was churning out results all over the map."

He hears Tony round the counter. He wonders if he should say something - Tony is never quiet. It's making Bruce anxious, and he dislikes the prickle of impatience that dances across his arms, standing the hair on edge.

"You did this," Bruce says, quieter. "You did this for me."

"I did this _to_ you," Tony replies.

The hand mold cools, retracts, and flattens back into the table top as Bruce removes his hand from it. The skin of his palm feels smooth and pleasantly warm. "This wasn't your fault," Bruce tells him.

There are several quick taps that sound distinctly like Tony's finger hitting the screen, and then the man says, "Recite touch input via audio."

"Tony," Bruce tries again.

"Computer, isolate the variable Dr. Banner solidified and read the outlier data aloud," Tony instructs, and then the computer's voice starts speaking, and the two mingle until Bruce can't tell them apart. There's too much noise and he hasn't slept, and the adrenaline that had kept him alert and determined all night has begun to fade into exhaustion.

He reaches, fingers skimming a bit of Tony's t-shirt fabric, and then curls his palm up to cup the man's elbow.

"You didn't do this to me," Bruce says.

"You still better believe I'm going to be damn sure that everything works right," Tony growls. "You're still going to be here, and you're still going to be working with me, and if I have to dismantle every piece of equipment to make it accessible-"

The idea of being _handicapped_ explodes across Bruce's thoughts like it never has before, even with the other guy lurking just out of range like a constant disability. He staggers a bit from the weight of the truth, blow leaving him reeling, and feels Tony's arm slide across his middle.

"-and you just went white as a _sheet_ , Big Guy, shit, sit down or something. Here, let me help."

Holding onto Tony's bicep helps get him down onto the stool, and it takes a long time before Bruce feels like himself again - only himself with a weary headache aching in his temples and nothing but blackness in front of his eyes.

"Thank you," he says. He's ashamed it wasn't the first thing out of his mouth.

"How about instead of thanking me," Tony replies, "you help me finish modifications on the suit and then we order some really, obnoxiously expensive take-out and grossly over-tip on the delivery."


	3. Chapter 3

Being back in the lab is good. The computer has an audio tutorial for everything, even the experimental settings that Tony has finished calibrating yet, and Bruce feels more like _himself_ with the tools and formulas and _knowledge_ back under his hands. It takes more time than he is ready to admit to get used to doing everything with his hands and his ears to make up for the lack of his eyes; more time, but time he's willing to spend just to be able to exercise his mind like this again.

"What is this?" Bruce asks, as he trails fingertips over the smooth metal of something distinctly non-lab one morning. He isn't surprised that Tony is already there - he was probably there all night.

"Biodegradable metal," is the answer.

"You planning on recycling the suit sometime soon?" Bruce jokes, even though the idea of Tony abandoning the Iron Man project makes his throat swell up uncomfortably.

He hears a short bark of a laugh, and then there is warmth behind him - the distinct warmth of another human body, dressed in what feels like another t-shirt and loose-fitting pants, probably hanging just above Tony's hipbones.

"That's not really the important thing on the table," Tony says. "Well, they're _all_ important, because I'm a genius, but - here." Hands close around his wrists, pushing his hands forward towards the counter top. "Use that mind to figure out what this is."

It's way too intimate, with Tony standing so close behind him and arms pressed against Bruce's own to maneuver his hands where he wants them. Bruce stopped breathing a few seconds ago; this much physical contact is more than he's had in a long while. People don't willingly touch him like this. His hands are trembling when he feels them pushed forward until he makes contact with something very un-metal feeling. It feels almost spongy, like a device that will soak up the imperfections of his life and hide them away.

"What do you know about microbial electrolysis?" Tony asks.

"Biomass?" Bruce says. "Energy production?"

"Hydrogen," Tony confirms. He moves Bruce's hands down the filter, and Bruce tries to imprint the feel of the material beneath his fingers to memory. "The ion exchange membrane is what the hydrogen goes through after the bacteria consume the acetic acid. It also releases-"

"Electrons and protons," Bruce finishes.

Behind him, Tony shifts closer, so their bodies are flush, and Bruce is sure it's just so that Tony can reach with Bruce's hands towards the rest of the set-up. The membrane itself is a strange material, but now, Bruce is understanding the full purpose of it. He is building in his mind the model set up on the table.

"You need to add something, a jolt," Bruce says, trying to keep his voice steady. Tony's reassuring build is very warm against his back. "From an outside-"

"-source," Tony says with him, and moves Bruce's left hand with deftness to a small electric pack resting atop the tanks separated by the membrane.

"A battery?" Bruce laughs; it's one of the only things he can do with so much strangeness floating around his head.

Tony's own laugh rumbles through his form, reverberating through Bruce's chest. It feels like an echo that's a half-second too late. "It's a model, Banner. The real thing is far more advanced than a battery."

Tony's fingers are curling around Bruce's wrists, even though he's no longer moving Bruce's hands - they are standing, too close for comfort and not nearly close enough - and Bruce isn't sure what he should be doing. He sucks in a long, burning lungful of air and releases it, slowly, letting it whistle a bit through his teeth.

Tony's voice is very near to Bruce's ear when he murmurs, "The problem is that the membranes are exuberantly expensive and need to be constantly replaced."

"That's where you come in," Bruce replies. He swallows hard.

"That's where _we_ come in," is the correction. Tony is so close that his breath is moving the hair skimming the top of Bruce's ear. He could let go - he's not showing Bruce anything anymore, their hands are idle. But Tony doesn't move, and neither does Bruce, and maybe there's something important hidden there that Bruce just isn't quite ready to focus on yet.

"You want me to help you build better microbial electrolysis membranes?" Bruce asks.

"No, Bruce," Tony says, fingers tightening around Bruce's wrists. "That's just the beginning."

\--

Something is different after that. Bruce never asks for help - because he doesn't _want_ it - but he'll find Tony doing things to aid him anyway, without being asked for it. He also finds a slew of household appliances that have been formatted to perform tasks in audio-functions, though it nearly scares him out of his skin the first time he makes his way to the kitchen and opens the pantry to try and find some herbal tea and the pantry greets him and asks what it is he's looking for (and the location of the loose tea grounds, which are near the back and on the right in a small tin).

He doesn't actually mind it, as much as he feels sometimes the sting of his pride taking a hit. He is happy that he can pull out his own lunch from the refrigerator since the machine now informs him of the location of the lettuce.

"Jarvis," Bruce asks, as he's putting together a sandwich with pre-sliced cheese and already prepared deli meat from the place up the street Tony likes so much.

"Yes, Mister Banner."

"After the... after my accident," Bruce starts, and has to pause to re-wet his lips, which have gone very dry, "what happened here?"

"Are you referring to the night that you remained at the hospital?" Jarvis asks.

It's hard to think about that night without feeling like he wants to retch. "Yes," Bruce replies.

"Master Stark was rather understandably upset," Jarvis tells him. Bruce pulls a glass out of the cabinet and nearly drops it when it informs him that it is "empty" and "will beep once when filled to maximum capacity". He decides not to think too hard about that one. "He spent the night drawing up plans on the servers for renovations."

"Before I got my diagnosis?" Bruce asks.

The glass does indeed beep after he's filled it with juice. "I believe he wanted to be prepared," Jarvis says, and if Bruce didn't know better, he'd think there was something like a warning note in the AI's tone.

Suddenly, Bruce is not very hungry.

"Jarvis," he says again, quietly.

"Yes, Mister Banner?"

"I'm sorry, but could you have Dummy clean up the kitchen?"

There is a short hum of affirmation. "Yes, Mister Banner."

\--

At 6:43 PM on Wednesday, an alien creature belonging to a race known as Morgels flies through the windows at Stark Tower on one of the lab floors and destroys just about everything that was sitting inside. This is all Bruce knows when he opens his eyes to the blackness and is himself again, crouched on the floor with shards of glass embedded in his palms that he suspects only got there post-transformation, since he's never carried over any injuries the other guy sustained.

There's a hand on his shoulder that feels like Tony, and then a blanket draped over his shoulder that probably cost hundreds of dollars. "Welcome back, Big Guy."

"Did I-" Bruce starts, and can't finish. He's running on too little. The transformation is always jarring and exhausting, but this time, there's a dull ache in the back of his head. There's been too much lately, and he's got next to nothing left. He's surprised, actually, that his control lasted as long as it did given the circumstances.

Tony helps him up and to the couch - the only piece of furniture that wasn't completely torn apart - and Bruce is thankful for the solid weight of the man's palms against his biceps. "Everything's fine," Tony says. "No biggie. Morgel did more damage than you did."

Considering the alien destroyed half a floor, that's not saying much, but Bruce tries to take comfort in the words anyway.

"You know, I'm re-evaluating the building here anyway. I'm thinking a sky roof would be a great idea," Tony continues.

"There are four floors above this," Bruce murmurs, and is largely ignored, save for the squeeze around his shoulder.

"Fury's here," Tony says. "How about I take care of the grouch and you hang out here til I get back, and then we make some sort of terrible life decision and drink our weight in Crown?"

Bruce just nods, and Tony leaves. Bruce can hear his soles crunching against the bits of glass that are strewn across the floor. He waits for ten minutes, just to make sure that he's really gone, before raising his head and calling, "Jarvis?"

"Yes, Mister Banner?"

"Can you playback what happened, from the recording?" Bruce asks. He knows the system has captured it. There's no way Stark Tower didn't record what went on.

"Initializing playback now," Jarvis says, and Bruce can hear a ping that alerts him to the video no doubt playing somewhere nearby. He's interested in the audio.

He hears the scene crackle to life, and can almost picture it: the Morgel flying in through the window and exploding glass, Tony jumping up with a shout, and the other guy, finally finding the opening in Bruce's shattered defenses to roar back into control. There's a lot of shouting, and some noises too loud that wash out everything, and then when it comes to, he hears Tony - over everything else, he hears Tony.

"Whoa, whoa!" Tony is calling, and then there's a crash and a roar - the other guy, loud and clear. Bruce wishes he could close his eyes and tune it out, but there's no change when he squeezes his lids together.

There's a creak and a groan and a smash, and Bruce isn't sure what just happened. Maybe the other guy threw one of the tables. There's another roar and this one sounds upset - confused. The Hulk doesn't know what's going on or why he can't see. Bruce remembers the panic that gripped his chest and the knowledge that ate at his stomach when he realized there was nothing before his eyes but blackness.

"It's okay, Big Guy," Tony is saying on the recording. "Whoa, okay - I know, I know. Listen. It's me. Hey, it's me, okay? You know me. You know my voice."

The Hulk roars in anger and frustration, and Bruce's chest feels like it's imploding in on itself.

"I know," Tony says again, gentler this time. Bruce has never really heard the way Tony talks to the Hulk, but it's... familiar. Comforting. He doesn't know how to deal with it, so he files it away, just like everything else he can't think about. "Big Guy, I know, it's terrible. It's awful. Everything is dark, right? But listen, I'm here - it's me. You're in Stark Tower."

There's a growl that resonates from the Hulk's throat and it sends shivers all the way down Bruce's spine. Then Hulk grumbles something too low for Bruce to hear over everything else.

"Yeah," Tony replies to whatever it was. "Yeah, I know. But it's me, okay? Just me. You know me. I'm going to reach for you, okay? I'm going to reach for-"

"Terminate playback," Bruce says, harsher than he meant to. The sound cuts off a second later, and he's alone on the couch with the blanket pulled tight around his shoulders. He can't listen to any more.

He sits for a long time, chewing on his thumbnail down to the quick until it bleeds.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS GETTING SO LONG I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO SAY HERE
> 
> thanks to ampersandy for reading this in chunks over email <3

Now, when Bruce stares up at the ceiling at night, he sees only what he used to see, in the dingy alleys of Calcutta - nothing. Darkness. At night, he can feel like there is nothing wrong. But tonight he is too preoccupied to dwell on the sights he used to know and rely on; tonight, he is thinking of Tony. He tries to understand the odd affection the man has for the other guy, and comes up with nothing.

There have been few equations in his life that Bruce has not been able to solve, but Tony Stark is an enigma with variables that Bruce can't even hope to understand.

\--

He spends a lot of time in the lab, because he can. He's gone through every audio tutorial and feels like he's doing something again: working, contributing. It makes him feel less like collateral damage and more like himself. Tony has gotten the system set up so that if Bruce does find something that he can't identify - which happens a lot, given the lab, and Tony's tendency to flit between projects as the whim hits him - he can ask the computer to identify it. Sometimes this results in the computer giving him what Tony has programmed in for it, like the time the tool Bruce was holding was described as "a long, thin solder used to work with the new metal for the Iron Man suit, which is going to be genius just like everything else and oh, Bruce, see if you can't come up with a better way to power the jet propulsion engine while you're at it."

He spends a lot of time on the biomass project, testing various levels of strength in the ion membrane to see if they can't up the percentage and rate of the hydrogen soaking through. Often, Tony is there with him, and they will work side by side in comfortable silence - silence save, of course, the sounds of the system's audio instruction files. Tony hasn't tried to hands-on assist Bruce again.

"Can I ask you something?" Bruce asks, after a few days of gnawing on the question inside his head. His fingers are wrapped around the beginning stages of a new membrane creation - the stickiest process, as the material cools and sets with enough space between the molecules to allow for the transfer.

"Yes, I _do_ like baba ganoush on my pitas but that local place on 42nd just doesn't have the seasoning right at all," Tony replies, without a pause in the small tinks and whirrs coming from the table he's working at.

Bruce assumes this mean that the man hasn't turned around to look at him.

"I'll let Jarvis know," Bruce says, dryly, "but not what I had in mind."

"What's up, Big Guy?"

"Why did you do all this for me?"

There's silence then, and Tony's tools stop. Bruce leaves his hands submerged in the membrane-mixture, for lack of anything else to do with them, and hears the familiar clop of Tony's soles against the ground as he rounds the counter. Bruce is getting better at gauging distance and speed with the sounds around him.

"And don't give me the flippant snark you're so good at," Bruce adds, when Tony still doesn't speak and Bruce's skin is prickling from the perceived proximity of the man. There's another long second of nothing but quiet, and then Tony's fingers press gently against Bruce's wrist - he pulls Bruce's hands free.

"Computer, towel dry," he says.

"I'm serious," Bruce tells him. The towel deposited in his hands is slightly damp from his earlier experiments and smells faintly of iodine. "This - all of this, it's too much. It's not worth it, and you shouldn't have spent time you could have been using-"

"How about I stop you right there, before the whole self-deprecating spiral starts," Tony interrupts. His fingers curl around Bruce's wrist and stay there. "I know the whole tortured scientist thing is really working for you, and trust me, I get it, but look."

Bruce is frustrated, and the feeling is bubbling up like an opened champagne bottle. "You aren't answering my question."

"No, I'm dodging it," Tony agrees. "And usually I'm a lot better at that, so I must be off my game today."

"Tony, don't-"

"You know," Tony interjects smoothly, "for someone who figured out how to stabilize the formulaic compound used in microbial electrolysis, you certainly do miss an awful lot."

Tony is pulling his arm away, dragging him a few stumbling steps away from the counter, and then the man's other hand is pressed against Bruce's side; it should be stabilizing and feels more like it's adding to the carousel.

"By the way," Tony murmurs, and his voice has dropped down an octave, close enough that Bruce can feel small puffs of air against his cheek with each syllable, "in approximately three seconds, I'm going to kiss you, so you've got a little less than that to move away if you are opposed. One."

"What?" Bruce asks, and it comes out more gasp than tone.

"Two," Tony continues. His hand moves from Bruce's wrist to his neck, wrapping around the back with fingers tangling in Bruce's hair.

Bruce sucks in a shaking lungful of air, which is the only reason that his lips are somewhat open when Tony finishes with a quiet, _"Three,_ " and Bruce doesn't have any more time to think before there is a warm mouth covering his own. Tony's kisses don't feel like him - at least, they don't feel like what Bruce assumed they would. Tony is bluster and bravado and he's kissing Bruce so slowly it feels like he's trying to take Bruce apart at the seams, one stitch at a time.

It's strange, because it occurs to him only belatedly that he never considered using the three seconds to shift away.

When Tony pulls away, Bruce's world is a hazy montage of recalled shades of yellow. He wonders if the reality around him is bathed in the setting sun's hues.

"I'm not good at saying things," Tony says. "At least that's what Pepper always told me."

"You usually say an awful lot," Bruce replies, and runs his tongue slowly over his bottom lip - it's been a long time. He shied away from physical contact for so long for fear of losing control and bringing out the other guy, but the feeling in his gut isn't the uncoiling, organ-grabbing end he feared. It's more like the carbonation after shaking a can of soda and opening it up.

Tony lets out a small bark of a laugh. His hand has not moved from its place at the back of Bruce's head. "And most of it is very, very important. But this, you know - well, it's schmoopy and I don't really do schmoop, so I guess there's a psychoanalysis to this all, like how I _let my actions speak for me_ , and-"

Bruce cuts him off by raising a hand to Tony's face, thumb brushing over the short hairs just above the man's lip. He didn't mean to silence the other man, he was just trying to re-orient himself - and find Tony's mouth again in the darkness.

"Tony," he says.

It's easy to drag the man in again once Bruce's hands have settled solidly at the sides of Tony's face.

"Oh," Tony breathes, just before Bruce crashes their mouths together, "right."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY I'M BACK sorry, had to finish up two fics for an exchange deadline this past weekend. BUT BACK TO YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED SCIENCE BOYFRIENDS. :Db

Bruce's shower alerts him when his shampoo is getting low. His wardrobe is sorted by color, and the computerized system within it will inform him of potential hue clashes. In the lab, there is an alert programmed in to immediately go off if volatile chemicals are mixed together.

Bruce can do most everything he used to do - he can make his own dinner, create his own experiments. He has been gifted, and he is luckier than he ever should have been. If he'd been in Calcutta, he would have lost everything, and ended up out on the street begging for spare change. Here in Stark Tower, his life is a charmed one.

It makes him guilty, a bit, with the emotion digging into the happiness he feels at being able to function and work again.

He wonders if it's the guilt there, in his veins, that makes him so open to Tony's hands on his shoulders, Tony's fingers curling around his biceps, and Tony's mouth skating over his own over and over again.

\--

Tony's palms are pressing against Bruce's chest, like an anchor that Bruce can find in the darkness.

"Watch out, bed behind you," Tony murmurs against Bruce's ear, and a second later, the back of Bruce's calves hit the mattress in question - he half-tumbles, half-sits, in the most ungraceful move ever, and manages to take Tony down with him. The other man ends up splayed above him and it's only through his hands, still against Bruce's ribs, that Bruce can feel the erratic rhythm of Tony's breathing.

"That works," Tony laughs. He kisses Bruce again, harder and with more determination, like Bruce is one of his experiments - like Bruce is one of the gadgets that Tony marvels over. Tony wants to learn and study and _burrow_ ; when Bruce reaches up to tug Tony's t-shirt over his head, he knows the arc reactor is there, and can imagine the blue glow of it in the room. His fingers miss on the first attempt, but find the smooth front of it on the second, and he lets his fingertips trail outwards to slide over the slightly puckered skin where metal meets flesh.

Tony sucks in a deep breath in response, the air hitching, and Bruce can feel that, too.

"Does it hurt?" Bruce asks. He wishes that he'd taken the time to study it while he could see. He wishes he'd had the courage to ask, to get Tony seated up on a table with his shirt pulled up to his chin so Bruce could see the glowing ring of light and the wires that connect it to his veins. Instead, he has right now. He takes a moment to let his fingers memorize the dips and curves of the metal and the way it isn't flush with Tony's chest.

"No," Tony says, and it comes out a bit garbled, which makes Bruce wonder if he's the first person during an intimate moment to pause and really fixate on the thing. Bruce can feel his muscles flexing a bit - coiling, perhaps, in response to the stimulation. There _does_ seem to be something there, at least by the way that the other man is shivering above Bruce's reclining form.

When Bruce finally pulls his fingers away, Tony sweeps in to find his mouth again, fingers pulling the buttons of Bruce's shirt apart.

"We're gonna watch your heart rate, big guy," Tony says, punctuated with kisses and a pause for Bruce to lean up so Tony can tug his shirt free from his arms. "Jarvis is on it, like you wouldn't believe - sensors, heat scans, you name it."

"Do you always seduce your conquests with invasive technology?" Bruce asks.

"Most of them don't call it 'invasive technology', but hey, whatever floats your boat - I kinda like the nickname."

Bruce laughs and the sound catches a bit in his throat. "You're terrible."

Tony shifts and pulls back, hands going for Bruce's slacks. "Sticks and stones, baby."

"Wait," Bruce says, and reaches, with surprisingly good aim, to grab at Tony's wrists halfway through undoing the waistband of his pants. "Tony, I can't-"

"I'm going to walk you through everything," Tony promises; Bruce feels the feather-light fan of Tony's fingers across his stomach, like a butterfly. "I'll tell you everything I'm going to do, and it'll be just like you can see it."

Even now, with Tony's thighs pressed against Bruce's own and Tony's breath puffing against Bruce's cheek, he can feel it. There's the line he is terrified to walk across and the walls he's constructed to keep himself from it, and Tony is barreling through all of them without Iron Man like he's not worried at all about the falling debris.

Tony leans in and he's kissing Bruce again, keeping his mouth occupied just like his mind. He draws back and his fingers go back to the zipper-fly of Bruce's pants, and Tony leans down just enough to whisper against Bruce's jaw, "I'm going to touch you. I'm going to slide my hand in your pants and touch you through your underwear, and we're gonna see how high that heart rate goes."

It's like he's both listening to it and experiencing it at the same time as Tony does just that, palm sliding to cup Bruce through the fabric. Truth be told, he's not even sure the play-by-play is needed, but Tony is _there_ and he's not afraid and it's one of the best things that Bruce has had in a very long time. He can hear a monitor - off to the side, like there's one installed above the bed, and he isn't even sure why he's _surprised_ that the man who remodeled his entire lab also thought to add a failsafe device in the bedroom.

After a moment of thought, the desperate, _needy_ sort of thought that accompanies Tony's fingers running up and down his length through his boxers, Bruce finally does find it surprising: surprising that Tony anticipated this.

Tony had _planned_ for this.

"Good," Tony says, like he's watching a gadget come to life. "Right where you should be - no destructive surprises yet. You ready for more?"

Bruce works his hands back up to the arc reactor. "What did you have in mind?"

"I gotta be honest with you," Tony murmurs, and slides in closer with his hand easing back up to the waistband of the cotton and then slipping, leaving warm trails in its wake, beneath the elastic. "I want to suck you off so bad it _hurts_."

"Does the dirty talk work with your other conquests?" Bruce asks, and arches up when Tony's fingers wrap around him without fabric as a barrier - god, he hasn't felt another person's touch on his cock for _years_ , and Tony is curling his hand around it like he's taking up residence. "I think you just like to hear the sound of your own voice."

Tony laughs near Bruce's ear and nips at his neck a bit, and the exhilaration of it makes Bruce groan again. "You want a play-by-play, big guy? You want me to explain how I want to take you in my mouth and run you up and down with my tongue? That brain of yours get off to hearing about how much I want to be holding you between my teeth when you come-"

" _Tony_ ," Bruce gasps, as the man's thumb rolls over the head and swipes across the slit. It's been too long and he's not going to last; the other guy is there, beneath his thoughts, rumbling quietly almost in agreement.

"Okay, then, getting to the main event," Tony says. "I like a guy who wants to get straight to the point."

His hand stills and Bruce bites down on his lip as Tony pushes himself downwards, stilling halfway.

"You gonna kick me in the junk if I take your pants off?" Tony asks.

"Stalling," Bruce says, and chokes out a laugh, and Tony licks a hot line down from his navel as he tugs both Bruce's slacks and his boxers free. Without his sight, Bruce feels oddly exposed; like he's not entirely in control since he can't see the scene around him, but then there is a warm breath against his inner thigh and the light scrape of Tony's beard against his skin.

"You know I can't talk you through this part," Tony mumbles as he plants a kiss on Bruce's leg - he moves like he's at home, confident and self-assured, with his hands always touching Bruce's body so Bruce knows where he is.

"Think I know how this goes," Bruce replies, taking a deep, shuddering breath.

He gets a squeeze to his thigh in warning before Tony takes him in his mouth. It really _has_ been too long; Bruce knows as soon as the warmth explodes around him that he's going to embarrass himself and not care. He reaches for lack of anything better to do with his hands and finds Tony's hair, tangling his fingers in the strands like an anchor. Tony sighs around his cock and _that's_ new, a sensation that rolls all the way up Bruce's torso.

In the darkness, there's only Tony, working him up and down with his fingers curled around the base to hold Bruce steady. Bruce can hear the heart monitor beeping - fast, but not too fast, not _that_ fast, and he knows because the trepidation he's usually walking on isn't present. The other guy isn't rising, isn't fighting for control - it's almost the opposite. As Tony curls his tongue over and around in time with his rhythm, Bruce can't even _feel_ the other guy, as if the entity has slipped into the shadowy recesses of his mind entirely.

It's going too quick. Bruce tightens his grip on Tony's hair a bit, and Tony hums around him, sending shockwaves all the way down to Bruce's toes. Just like everything else Tony Stark does, he is good at this.

"Tony," Bruce tries - it's hard to get much else out. His orgasm comes without much warning, like Bruce is so out of practice with it that he can no longer even anticipate the arrival. He feels bad, but Tony doesn't seem to mind. He's moving back up Bruce's form within moments, his weight comforting.

"Planned for this, did you?" Bruce asks, because he's still listening to the beeping of the sensor that is signaling them both free of the danger zone.

"It's like you don't listen to anything I say," Tony replies. "I told you I'd wanted to-"

"No, I got that part," Bruce interrupts, and pulls Tony in by his shoulders, fingers wrapped around the joints. " _That_ part, I understood."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god I suck I'm so slow! But I did it! Hooray, yay, I actually finished something! :D

It's strange to fall into a routine with Tony. Strange enough that Bruce is getting a routine with _anyone_ , but there is an extra layer on top when he realizes that his routine is all fingertips to doorways and spoken instructions from machines. If there is anything that Bruce ever thought his life would _not_ be like, it is this.

It is, of course, as he is attempting to reconcile the idea of _familiarity_ with the fact that he still cannot see his world, that Director Fury chooses to visit again. Bruce is getting better with footsteps and identification - he knows it is Fury before the man has reached the middle of the lab.

"If you're looking for Tony," Bruce starts, and deliberately lets it hang there. Behind him, the monitor beeps at him to announce that his algorithm has achieved 19% success rate when used in contained, controlled circumstances.

"I'm not, actually," Fury says. There are no further footsteps, so Bruce doesn't think the man is moving. He wonders if Fury is surveying the room, and Bruce's presence in it; not for the first time, Bruce wonders what he must look like now, working with the senses he still has about him rather than his sight. He reaches out to find the keyboard and types in another tweak, contemplating it as the computer reads it back to him.

He hears Fury's footsteps then. "I came to speak to you about your involvement in the initiative."

"Are you still calling it that?" Bruce asks. "I'd think a successful test run would bolster it into something more permanent."

"It is," Fury replies, slowly, and Bruce lets his hand fall back down to his side, because he knows where this is going.

"Are you asking me if I quit?" he tries, quietly. He isn't sure when the idea of no longer _having_ the team hit him in the heart, between the lungs and beneath his ribcage, like a well-placed detonation.

There is a long scrape of boot-sole against tile, and then Fury says, "I think you know as well as I do that in this organization, there is no such thing as quitting."

"But there is such a thing as disappearing," Bruce says. "I bet you're quite good at making that happen."

"Dr. Banner, no one is asking you to disappear."

Bruce sucks in a long, hot stream of air that burns on the way down. "People don't usually ask - it's the sort of thing that someone just feels is necessary for the greater good."

"I think you misunderstand my reason for being here," Fury tells him.

"Then by all means," Bruce replies, "elaborate for me."

After a moment of silence, there is a small sound, a brief exhale that sounds an awful lot like the beginnings of a laugh; if Bruce could see, he wonders if he would see Fury smiling, with one corner of his mouth, like he's fighting against the upward motion.

"You have been spending far too much time with Tony Stark."

As if on cue, Tony says from across the room, "Not possible, though it's been suggested."

"Stark," Fury says in acknowledgment. "I thought you were out."

"So you came to badger my scientist while I was away?" Tony asks. His footsteps seem to hover on the other side of Bruce's counter - close enough to be present, but far enough to still allow Bruce control. Tony, for all his failings, is not bad at misreading situations unless he intentionally tries to be. "Funny, I'd forgotten how underhanded you could be."

"Tony, it's okay-" Bruce starts.

There is a touch of pressure on the inside of his elbow, Tony's sign that he's near and still rounding Bruce's form. "I only came to ask about the optimal displacement reactor readings. I didn't know the principal was here."

"He came to talk to me," Bruce explains, and realizes he still doesn't know why Fury is here.

"I wanted to know what you wished your future involvement with SHIELD to be," Fury says. "After everything, I feel you deserve the decision on how you may or may not serve the organization in the future."

"I assume the role of mascot has already been filled," Bruce tells him.

There is a sharp laugh behind him, and Tony's fingers on his shoulder. "Maybe you really _have_ been spending too much time with me. Now you even sound like me."

"Dr. Banner," Fury starts, and Bruce cuts him off, because all at once, his head is throbbing.

"I'll have to think about it," he says. He reaches for the button to put the software in sleep mode. "I'll get back to you on what I can still _contribute_ by the end of the week."

\--

It's not just that he feels _useless_ \- he's felt useless before, before he figured out that helping people took the edge off that sharp feeling beneath his sternum. Bruce doesn't feel as useless as he might, and he knows he has Tony to thank for that, but there is still the very real question on how exactly the Other Guy can serve alongside the team if neither of them can _see_.

Tony - apparently weighing the options of leaving Bruce mope in peace and annoyingly joining him without an offer - climbs between the sheets sometime after the darkest part of the night, when the heavy silence always feels the most oppressive. Tony is a pillow-stealer.

"Don't let him get to you," is what Tony says, immediately, not quite correctly reading Bruce's thoughts.

"It's not just him," Bruce says, and that's true; it's everything. "He's right, you know."

"Seldom, if ever," Tony replies. He curls himself over and around Bruce's form, molding himself the way that only Tony Stark can do - in a way only a man so insecure in his own failings, carefully hidden throughout layers of preserved public facade, can do. Tony knows how to slip between cracks and expand to fill all the holes.

It's an irritating if not somewhat admirable quality that he possesses.

"What can I do, really?" Bruce asks, and before Tony immediately jumps to defend him, adds, "Because I can help here, with you, and with the experiments, but out there - I'm a sitting duck."

"So we figure something out," Tony says. "We create - fuck, I don't know, something to help the big guy figure out where things are. Where to swing his fists. There's got to be something there: vibrations we can map, maybe."

Bruce shakes his head against the pillowcase. "It's more work than it needs to be."

"You're part of the team," Tony says, in a way that sounds as if he is leaving no opening for arguments. "Then, now, always. You're one of us."

"Being part of the team doesn't always mean being out on the battlefield," Bruce replies.

There is a long silence.

"I guess," Tony starts, one finger curling around Bruce's bicep, and then joined by another, "that's a decision that only you can make."

Coming from Tony, it's practically _chivalry_ , so Bruce takes it for what it is and mulls all of it over as he pretends to stare up at the ceiling, listening to Tony's heavy, rhythmic breathing beside him.

\--

Tony is awake before Bruce is, and moving around the room creating enough noise to wake him; Bruce stretches both arms, trying to work the kinks out of his elbows, and kicks a foot out from beneath the too-smooth feel of the sheets. It's still strange, waking up in a bed with actual blankets, though not unwelcome. Bruce cranes his head and opens his eyes, and the sun is peeking in from behind the not-quite-closed curtains.

 _The sun_. The color is there - the _light_ is there, the difference between shapes that are both dark and light, edge and contrast, muted and hazy and not quite in focus or the vibrancy it should be, but _there_. Bruce sits up, so quickly he almost knocks his head against the wall, terrified that speaking it will cause the whole thing to disappear but too filled with adrenaline to stop himself. "Tony."

"Sorry, I know, my clomping feet," Tony says, without turning. He's in the closet, fiddling with some kind of control - Bruce can't see what it is, because there's not enough detail, but he can see Tony there, in the doorway, with his hand against the wall. "Too much time living alone, yadda yadda, I know the drill."

" _Tony_ ," Bruce tries, again, unable to get anything else past his lips. His fingers are shaking against the blankets.

This, Tony seems to register. He turns. Bruce can see his face - or at least the hazy outline of it, light against the dark backdrop, splash of dark on his chin where Bruce knows the hairs are short and stiff. "What?"

Hope - glorious, intoxicating, _overwhelming_ hope floods back into Bruce's nerves so fast he's gasping, like a drowning man suddenly being bombarded with air. It's not perfect, but it's enough; enough to prove it's healing, maybe, or even just enough to give back the spark of desire for the future that Bruce has been missing.

He laughs, because the conversation with Fury now seems so distant and irrelevant.

"I can see," he marvels. He holds a hand out in front of him, and counts his fingers. "I can _see_."

"My glorious presence brought your sight back?" Tony jokes, but he's close enough that Bruce can see that he's smiling - he doesn't have to feel guilty anymore, maybe.

There's a long second where Bruce can scarcely breathe because none of it feels real.

"You know I spent millions of dollars updating the equipment in this tower for you?" Tony says, and it's funnier than anything else, as Bruce knew he meant it to be. He laughs, and Bruce laughs, and Bruce doesn't think either of them can _stop_ ; the tension that has been hanging low on them for weeks vanishes.

"Call SHIELD," Bruce tells him. He's still staring at his hand in wonder. He didn't know it was possible to forget the grooves of one's own palms. "Tell Fury I'm still part of the team."

"You always were," Tony reminds him, but stands, one hand on Bruce's shoulder, like an anchor.

It may be slow, but it's coming back, and the sunlight he can pick out against the wall proves it. 

Bruce sucks in a long, slow lungful of air, and exhales.


End file.
